


On a Dime

by maybespyware



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Dick Grayson is Robin, M/M, One Shot, me kicking canon around wherever i darn please
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:16:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26759335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maybespyware/pseuds/maybespyware
Summary: “You broke out.” Bruce stated, voice steady and accusatory. Harvey merely shrugged, as if he weren’t a wanted man, very definitely being hunted down by law enforcement. “Why are you here?”“I flipped on it,” Harvey answered, and that seemed to be enough of an answer for the both of them.
Relationships: (one-sided) Harvey Dent/Bruce Wayne, Implied Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 2
Kudos: 112





	On a Dime

**Author's Note:**

> i made this one sporadically to get out of my writer's slump cause nothing is better for writer's block than good old angst. and also because two-face is a painfully under-utilized villain. promise i'll get my act together and finish my other ongoing stories soon enough.

The only thing alerting Bruce that anything was wrong was a small thump, echoing right outside his bedroom from the main entrance downstairs. Rationality told him it was probably Alfred; his butler slowly grew to share Bruce’s inclination for late night schedules over the years. The man was usually busying himself one way or another, despite Bruce’s insistence that he does more than enough for the household already. But instinct already had Bruce out the door, hustling downstairs as quietly as he could hurriedly manage down from the landing. 

Mud tracks. Bruce almost seized up before he managed to get himself under control, the small, almost inconsequential part of him panicking being immediately shut down as he analyzed the situation, running through a million different scenarios in his head as to what might go down. Alfred, he belatedly realized, was asleep. Dick was away from the Manor, with his team of superheroes. While that confirmed the presence of a potentially violent stranger in the house, at least it meant minimizing their involvement. The closest non-lethal weapon beside him was a particularly heavy gilded vase, a gift from some German heiress who was just crooning over Bruce at his last gala. He wouldn’t mind breaking it. Holding it in his hands, water and violets spilling out onto the perfectly dry-cleaned rug, Bruce hesitantly followed the fading trail of muddy footprints, staggered and uneven, evidence of either someone drunk or too out of it to walk properly. They stopped just short of the walkway to the kitchen. Slowly, Bruce raised the vase and listened intently. Dim light spilled out into the hallway. The kettle was on, right on the verge of whistling. Fabric rustled. Someone was tapping their foot against wood. Whoever they were, they sounded off-guard, like they were waiting for something. Bruce took this as the perfect opportunity to swing around the corner and subdue the intruder. 

Harvey Dent caught the swing in a clean, gloved hand. Bruce subconsciously brought his knee upwards, years of experience telling him the best counter-attack to get out of this situation. This one hit Harvey hard, the tell-tale sound of a hissed gasp the evidence that he’s hit his mark. The man lets go of the grip he had on the vase to stumble back, hitting the kitchen aisle before he stopped. For two beats, everything paused. The pair stood where they were, Two-Face grunting as he reoriented himself, neither saying a word. Eventually, Dent looked up at Bruce, one side of his eternally set snarl quirking up into what might have been intended as a snide grin. 

“Hey, Wayne.” His trademark suit was pressed, hair perfectly styled, half slicked back the way the district attorney always liked. Harvey’s dress shoes were stained in dirt and grime, smudging against the tiles of the kitchen. He’s overdressed compared to Bruce, currently in a simple shirt and boxers. Both hands were empty, the guns either holstered or never there to begin with. Bruce’s eyes swept over the scene, trying to catalogue anything that might turn into a threat, the vase still tightly held in his fingers.

“You broke out.” Bruce stated, voice steady and accusatory. Harvey merely shrugged, as if he weren’t a wanted man, very definitely being hunted down by law enforcement. “Why are you here?”

“I flipped on it,” Harvey answered, and that seemed to be enough of an answer for the both of them. The kettle screamed, drowning out the silence between the two. He turned away from the billionaire behind him, seemingly confident in the opinion that he wouldn’t try to knock the villain unconscious, heading to the stove to turn off the heat. “Is it a crime to want to visit an old friend? Didn’t even greet me.” He shook his head, throwing a glare over his shoulder at Bruce’s tense stance. “For christ’s sake, Bruce, put down the damn vase. If I wanted to hurt you, I’d’ve done it by now.”

Rather reluctantly, Bruce slowly set down the ceramic centerpiece down onto the bar. Two-Face was still dangerous, he might have seen something he shouldn’t, Bruce should not have set down the vase. And yet there’s something in his friend’s eyes, something that seems so familiar from before, that it convinces Bruce to pull his hand away from his only defense. Dent nodded approvingly, turning back to his task of setting down two mugs from the cabinet.

“It’ll be worse for you if they catch you here, Harvey. You need to turn yourself in.” Bruce said, advancing to where the former attorney stood. One side of his face pulled down into a grimace at the man’s words, the mugs clinking together in his grip as his hand trembled. Grim tension stained the atmosphere, and for a second Bruce’s gaze flickered back to the vase.

“Quit talking about what _I_ need, Bruce. You don’t fucking know me. Those morons over at Arkham probably haven’t figured out I’m long gone.” The good side of his face was sneering down at the counter, both eyes trained on the still empty cups. “God, you don’t even call me Harv anymore. Just Harvey. _Harvey_. I hate the way you say it.”

“You’re only digging your grave deeper.” Bruce replied, and a heavy sigh left his lips. Two-Face turned away. Slowly, Bruce slid the mugs over to his side of the space, away from Harvey’s resting hand. “Here, at least let me make the tea. The most I can do for you.”

“Don’t trust me not to poison you?” The criminal asked, tone neutral and expression hidden. The other man simply ignored him as he dropped in two teabags, carefully pouring the water and watching the steam rise up into the air. He pushed one cup over to Harvey, fiddling with his own tea bag as it steeped. There was an amicable silence between them, something Bruce used to cherish between the pair of them back before Two-Face was born. Harvey had always made a mess out of the parlor, poring over documents and campaign budgets, sometimes piping up to ask Bruce for his thoughts on a subject and pulling him out of whatever task Bruce had his nose in.

“How’s Dickie doing? Heard you sent him off to boarding school.” Dent asked, taking a slow sip from his drink. Bruce scoffed. As if Two-Face had any right to ask how Robin was doing, after he had beaten him within an inch of his life. But Dick wasn’t Robin to Two-Face, was he. Harvey had met his ward once, weeks after Bruce took him in, days before Harvey’s demise. Dick hadn’t liked him at all. What would he even tell Harvey? Dick wasn’t on speaking terms with him. The last time they’d talked was months ago, when Bruce called him to let him know he and Clark were together. Even then it had been a terse, short conversation.

“I don’t remember telling you that,” Bruce told him, settling on the neutral statement as some sort of compromise. The man next to him waved it away nonchalantly.

“Saw it through tabloids, newspapers, you know. They don’t give you a lot of reading material in the looney bin. If it weren’t for the fact half the schlock about you was made up, it’d be kind of hard to not know about your personal life.” Harvey paused, waiting for Bruce to say something back. Bruce’s brow furrowed, and Harvey must have realized he’d prodded a sensitive topic by bringing up Dick, because he took a contemplative exhale and continued. “Don’t know if you two had a falling out recently, but you shouldn’t worry about it. Dick can figure out his life on his own. Kid’s sharp. Has a good future ahead of him.”

Bruce almost chuckled from the irony of it all. Dent fell quiet, seemingly content with just standing there, barely drinking the beverage in his hand. Maybe he was expecting the lull in conversation to be picked up by Bruce, but he let the moment pass by in silence. Eventually, Bruce asked the obvious question between them. 

“You obviously haven’t gone through all this... effort, just to drop by and chat. I visit you too often for that. Why are you really here, Harvey?” Dent’s fingers clenched around the handle, so hard it looked like the dishware would crack under his hold. There was a pause, almost as if the ex-attorney was thinking of what to say.

“Maybe it’s because I’m tired, Bruce,” Harvey began, and a sense of weariness settled into his features, dragging the gnarled skin on his right side down until the permanent snarl seemed almost human. “Maybe I’m _fucking tired_ of the one person I had left who believed in me turning away with pity in their eyes.” He leaned back slightly, putting distance between himself and the marble counter. 

Bruce opened his mouth, hundreds of scathing remarks and heartfelt apologies at the tip of his tongue, but before he could get out a single one of them, Harvey stepped behind him and aggressively shoved him. Bruce grunted as his midsection was pushed into the harsh edge of the table, spinning around to face Dent and counter the next attack. What he didn’t count for were Harvey’s arms coming down to grab the table on either side of the billionaire, effectively pinning him in place. The attorney’s expression above him could only be described as a leer. 

Bruce seethed at the position, even though he knew that he could take Two-Face in a fair fight with ease. Batman should have seen this coming. Even before the district attorney had taken up the coin toss, Harvey had been predisposed to have strange, violent attractions to the people he considered close enough to manipulate. It both disgusted and concerned him, how Dent thought he knew Bruce well enough to attempt this stunt, breaking into his home in the middle of the night to try to… what, confess? Try to convince himself that he hadn’t become what he is? Maybe he was doing this because he thought he could, because all he saw was a careless playboy that was too naïve to stop this from happening. Indescribable guilt and weak anger flooded him as he glared at the person in front of him, stepping too close for even Brucie’s boundaries. The mismatched eyes of Harvey stoically stared back, the bulging one on his right side exaggerated by the sunken skin of the sockets. 

He pressed a hand to the front of the tailored suit and tore Dent away from him, sending the criminal reeling back. The detective grasped onto his mug, more than ready to throw it at Harvey if he tried to charge at him. The man across from him didn’t do anything, letting his shoulders rise and fall as he breathed through his frustration.

“You want this. I know you want this,” Harvey growled. “Always liked danger, didn’t you? You can play dumb all you want in front of the cameras, but I know you better than you know yourself. Always have.” 

Bruce couldn’t suppress his exasperated laugh at the irony, because if Harvey knew him, really knew him, Two-Face would have put a bullet through his head long ago. 

“I don’t want anything to do with you, Dent.” 

“I’m sure your girlfriend of the week wouldn’t mind,” Dent continued, as if he hadn’t heard him, but Bruce could see how the corner of his lips turned down in a pained wince. He reached for his former friend’s arm. Bruce swatted it away, face carefully neutral. His thoughts had immediately jumped to Clark, the taste of something bitter settling on his tongue as he imagined the boy scout’s reaction to this situation. Would he be angry, disgusted, even, knowing that his partner had let Harvey into the Manor in the first place?

“I’m in a committed relationship, _Harv_. Even if I wasn’t I’d refuse. If this is all you’re looking for, I suggest you leave.” Bruce retorted before he could think better of it, spitting out the name like it was acid. Instantly he regretted it, because he shouldn’t have dragged Clark into this. Harvey’s face twisted into a mask of anger, teeth bared as he harshly pulled away from the billionaire he tried to corner.

“Fucking whore.” Harvey retorted, forcing the accusation between his clenched teeth. Bruce remained impassive, watching as his friend began pacing violently, hand dug into his pocket where he knew the coin lay. His voice was almost a yell, but he must have known that yelling would have roused Alfred and his shotgun. “Bet you’d spread your legs for anything with a pulse, wouldn’t you. Wonder if your lover knows what a fucking slut you are.”

“Get out.” Bruce commanded, and picked up the vase. Harvey grunted when he caught sight of the action, and tried to shoot a cruel smile his way, hindered by his burns.

“Go ahead, Bruce. Hit me.”

“Get out of my home.” Bruce said again, the threat of what he would do if the criminal didn’t comply imminent in his voice. “Don’t come back here ever again.”

“I don’t need you.” Harvey replied, marching right to the exit to the kitchen, pausing just as he was about to step out of sight. Bruce was about to start demanding again, before he saw silver shooting past Harvey’s shoulder. The coin caught in the dim light of the kitchen, gleaming as it sailed up before coming to land in a practiced catch in Harvey’s glove, hidden from view. 

“Heads.” Harvey announced, sliding the coin back into his pocket. Bruce didn’t say anything back. “Be seeing you, Wayne. Tell Alfred I said hi.” 

With that, Two-Face vanished. Bruce listened as his footsteps faded away, heard the heavy oak door of the mansion entrance creaking open, and then slamming shut. Bruce took a moment to sigh, and for the first time in a long while he felt tired, too old for this. Every scar and bruise throbbed with dull pain. Regret and pity for his old friend tugged at the edge of his emotions. 

In an hour, the Bat would be on the streets, wreaking justice and seeking out the newest escaped convict in Gotham. But for now, Bruce Wayne would just lean against the wall and finish his lukewarm drink.


End file.
